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Theon learns that his father is dead whilst hanging by the wrists from the wall of Stannis Baratheon’s solar, heard faintly through his all-consuming pain during a conversation between his sister and the so-called king. He does not have the space in his head for this fact to actually take root and mean something until he is free from his hanging prison and the pain has dulled down to something more bearable.
He learns many other things, then, each worse than the last. Balon Greyjoy is dead. Euron arrived the very next day. A kingsmoot was held, with Euron as the victor. Asha is a married woman, and she has some Torgon the Latecomer ideas floating around in her head. His only consolation is that they are more likely to die in the upcoming battle, or winter, or both, before those ideas can see the light of day.
Theon does not know how he should feel about the news of his father’s death. When Ned Stark lost his head in King’s Landing, Theon had felt a great many things: sadness, perhaps, anger at the injustice of it, but, most of all, an overwhelming sense of relief. The weight of Lord Stark’s great sword lifted from its place on the back of Theon’s neck, where it had rested for years and years.
There is no relief to be felt now. Balon Greyjoy has been dead for months. The world—including the Islands, it seems—has quickly moved on.
Twice-crowned and twice-forgotten, Theon thinks, though he would never dare say it aloud. Two fathers who had no want of me, both of them now dead—and me, still living.
What a great jape it all is. His father is dead. He died before Theon could ever complete the impossible task of gaining his love, or at the very least his pride. He died thinking Theon a fool and a disappointment. He died thinking Theon dead himself.
This should likely inspire some measure of feeling in him, sorrow or regret or bitterness; perhaps he is simply too frozen to feel much at the moment. Perhaps there are too many other, more urgent matters taking up space in his head, Ramsay and Jeyne and Stannis’ looming pyre.
Perhaps he will feel it later, if there is a later, perhaps it will come rushing in like a wave, the way all his fear and homesickness had upon his very first night in Winterfell. Perhaps he is already full of so much sorrow and regret and bitterness that what should be shattering news is but another drop in a vast sea.
Right now, the most he can feel is faintly grateful that he will never have to see the look on his father’s face if he were to meet Theon again…as he is now. He would have surely been even less pleased to see him than he was when last they met.
Perhaps there is some relief to be found here after all.
The sparse fire crackling in front of him is a relief as well. Greater still is the relief of being left alone—Jeyne is off supping as Lady Arya with the lords and ladies, Asha among them, and no one else wants to share a fire with the turncloak. He counts himself lucky that no one has come to throw snow upon it or stomp it out.
The log beneath him makes for a poor seat, but it is better than the snow. A cup of hard-won warm wine in his hands, a cloak over his shoulders, a fire warming his stiff fingers and ice-cold nose. What grand, Northern luxuries. Quite an improvement from Stannis’ manacles. He must thank his sister again, and Jeyne as well, for getting his feet back on the ground.
Theon watches the wood spark and burn and collapse as the fire eats away at it. He listens to the light rustle of the wind through the trees. He imagines a very, very long fall into the raging sea, and wonders what his father felt right before he hit the water. What his final thought was, if he had thought anything at all. Theon wonders if the sea would welcome him into its depths as well, or if the Drowned God has as little want for him as his father did.
He is shaken from his thoughts by the crunch of approaching footsteps in the snow—not often a good sign for him—but when he looks up, it is only Tristifer Botley coming round the log to sit beside him.
Theon turns back to the fire, clutching his cup tight in his remaining fingers.
“What a cold and desolate place the North is,” Tris complains in greeting, voice low enough as to not be heard by any of the North’s men. “I don’t know how you spent so many years here without going mad.”
“I do not think I did,” Theon says, sipping at his wine. “Else I would not have come back.”
Tris huffs a stilted half-laugh, as though unsure about whether he is allowed to. As though Theon has any say in what is allowed.
“Your sister sent me to come find you.”
“Well, here I am. I have finally found some semblance of warmth, so if she must speak with me she can come do it here.”
This is mostly not true—the fire casts heat upon his face and hands, but does not reach the chill in his bones. Tris does not move to stand, though, instead crossing his arms across his chest and leaning towards the fire. Theon continues to sip his wine.
“I wanted to give you my condolences about your father,” Tris says after a moment. “I…lost my own father recently, as well, so I know some of what you must feel.”
“Oh,” Theon answers, finally looking up from the fire. “I am sorry to hear that.”
And he is. He did not know Lord Sawane Botley well, but he had always been kind enough to Theon as a boy.
Tris nods. “I thought we might speak of our shared grief so that we may better understand each other. I have not seen you since you were a boy of ten!” He puts a hand up, presumably to demonstrate Theon’s height at age ten. “I do not know the man you are now, but I would like to.”
Theon doubts that very much. Perhaps Asha put him up to this, though he cannot imagine why.
He studies the man beside him for a moment, skeptical, but Tris’ face remains open and sincere, even in the shadows cast by the firelight. He truly does wish to speak of their dead fathers together. What strange men his sister attracts.
“What happened, then?” Theon decides to humor him. “To your father?”
“Well, it is said that when Euron washed ashore and declared himself king, my father refused him on account of you having the better claim to the throne. So Euron had him drowned.”
Theon stills, cup lifted halfway to his mouth. He takes another sip, grimaces as he swallows.
“Oh,” he says again. “I am sorry for that, as well.”
“You need not be sorry. You were not there. Besides, he had the truth of it—yours is the better claim. It is a shame he was drowned, else his voice would have been of great support to us at the ‘moot.”
Theon has never known Tris to be so…casual about matters such as this. Perhaps it is for Theon’s benefit. Perhaps distance is a way to move forwards without letting grief take root. Theon knows much about distance and grief.
“I am glad that the rest of you were able to make haste before Euron could drown you, too,” Theon offers.
Tris gives a pained sort of smile. “And what of your father?”
Theon swirls his cup around absently, watching the liquid slosh about. “What of him? You have seen my father much more than I in the last ten years. And you already know how he died.”
“Do you believe the story? That he fell from the bridge? Asha thinks the Crow’s Eye had something to do with it.”
“I do not know,” Theon says. “I was not there.”
“Do you grieve for him?”
Theon squints at the man—what kind of question is that? he wants to snap. But Tris does not seem to be testing him in some way, no challenge in his words. He is simply asking.
“He was my father,” is the answer Theon has. “Of course I grieve for him.” Though he likely did not grieve for me. “I know he thought me dead, or as well as, and he died himself before he could see what has become of me. Perhaps that was a mercy to us both.”
He takes another swig of his drink. Tris looks at him, looks at what has become of him: his face and his hair and his hands and the rest. He does not shy from it, despite his soft nature. Does not look away as Asha tends to.
Something about it disarms Theon; makes him want to snap his teeth at him and hide away. But he is a dog no longer, and so all he does is lift his chin and look back.
“I am glad that you are alive,” Tris says, “And that I am also alive, so that I can see what has become of you.”
Theon scrapes out a harsh laugh. “You are glad to see me in pieces like this?”
“I am glad to see you living.” Tris corrects. “There may be pieces missing, but you are still here, despite all that has happened. As am I. That is a mercy to us both.”
Theon knows not what to say. If it was pity in Tris’ eyes, he could easily toss it aside—he has no need for the pity of his sister’s once-lover and now-lapdog, a man he has not seen since they were both boys. But it is not pity that he sees. It is not scorn. He knows not what it is, but his words fail him in the face of it.
He turns back to his drink instead, gazing at what remains of the dark liquid. He considers pouring it out into the snow, sick of its bitter taste. Swallows the rest of it down instead so it might warm him from the inside.
“We might very well all be dead soon anyways,” he finally says. “All of us in pieces.”
“Perhaps,” Tris agrees. “Though I would prefer not to die so far inland. And we must get you to the sea again.”
“The sea,” Theon echoes, thinking of it. The crash of its waves and the salt in the air. His father’s watery grave.
“Aye. We cannot die without laying eyes on it once more. I suppose that means we must survive what’s to come.”
Hopeful fool, Theon thinks, swallowing down the urge to laugh in his stupid face. There is very little chance they will survive any of what’s to come, not to mention what might come after that. Even if they do manage to live through the retaking of Winterfell, Stannis means to dispense his justice on arrival, which will likely see Theon burned or beheaded at last.
And yet, if there is one thing Theon seems to excel at, it is survival. He has survived and survived and survived and is somehow still surviving now. In pieces, but still here.
Theon sighs deeply, setting his empty cup in the snow beside him.
“I suppose we must,” he agrees wearily. “If only to lay eyes on the sea once more.”
Tris gives a lopsided little smile, hesitant and hopeful. Theon does not give one in return; he is in no mood to smile and he knows it would not be a pretty sight. Tris does not seem to take offense—only smiles wider, as if he can compensate for the both of them. The thought nearly makes Theon laugh.
They sit there together a while longer, two fatherless sons of Pyke in the cold and desolate North, watching the fire crackle and waiting for whatever is to come.